


The Ice Cream Shoppe Affair

by orphan_account



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, THRUSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:12:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a routine undercover investigation of a THRUSH satrap, Napoleon plays chef and Illya deals with screaming children. Written for the "Down The Chimney" muncle fic exchange for utopiantrunks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ice Cream Shoppe Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [utopiantrunks](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=utopiantrunks).



Illya stared down at the little girl in pigtails dubiously. She took the sucker from her mouth, folded her arms crossly and stamped her foot.

"Qwadwoople," she said again, as if he hadn’t heard her the first time. "Wiv spwinkles."

"You’ll never finish it all," Illya said dryly, reaching for the silver scoop.

"I said, qwadwoople. Like the thign."

Illya glared out the window at the sandwich board standing at the curb side promising "Just Desserts! Ice cream, cupcakes, shortbreads and more!" It hadn’t been his idea to make the storefront surveillance a cake shop, but Waverly had some kind of hankering for tea at the time plans were being discussed, and so a cake shop it had become. And of course, to add verisimilitude to the plan, the place had to be staffed. Illya had painted the sandwich board, damningly, with a teetering four-scoop ice cream come, an illustration he already had reason to resent.

He sighed and reached for a cone. "What flavours?"

"Gween, pink, white and chocolate, thilly," the tiny terror said. "Jutht like the picture."

"Your teeth will fall out," he warned.

The little girl grinned, showing a sizable gap where her front teeth had already gone. "I want my ithcweam."

Illya piled the concoction delicately, and traversed the length of the counter to the till. "That will be one dollar."

She traded him four quarters, and took the cone in both hands, delight on every feature of her face. "Thankth, Mithter!"

Illya rang in her purchase, held the door, and watched her toddle down the block with her face buried in the dessert. He spared a glance at the building across the street, a shoe shop where THRUSH was rumoured to be training field agents. There was a smattering of passersby, but so far no hits meaningful to their surveillance.

He returned to the counter, wiped a clean cloth across the surfaces, then rapped impatiently at the saloon-style doors that  
separated the kitchen from the front of the shop.

"Napoleon, you said you would be out an hour ago. I want to go for lunch."

There was a clatter of kitchen implements, and then Napoleon pushed through the doors like a conquering cowboy, a white paper chef’s hat perched rakishly on his head.

"You seem to have everything under control here," he shrugged.

"Twenty four customers. All under the age of ten." Illya said steadily, "Whom I had to serve. It’s your turn."

"You can’t interrupt a master!" Napoleon announced proudly, " I’ve been working on a new flavour: Spicy Cocoa!"

Illya made a face. "You shouldn’t bastardize chocolate in any way. It’s already perfection."

"Just try this." Napoleon held out a tiny paper cup with a melting blob of brown in the bottom. "It still needs a little tweaking."

Illya dipped a tasting spoon into the cup dubiously, then stuck it in his mouth. The familiar taste of chocolate flooded across his tongue, followed by a hint of cinnamon and pepper.

"Mm, not bad. You’ve managed a decent transition from the classic chocolate flavour to a mild spice without unduly confusing the palate. Though I’d be hesitant to call it an ice cream, the texture is much more of a gelato or traditional ice."

"I didn’t know you were such a connoisseur," Napoleon smirked.

"I happen to have spent several months undercover working with a great Italian pastry maker. Out of necessity, I learned the language. But that should not distract you from the matter at hand, which is I am an hour late for my lunch, have spent most of the day serving unaccompanied minors and need to make a report to Waverley."

"Oh, good, you can bring him a pint of the Spicy Cocoa!" Napoleon bustled back into the kitchen and Illya made a face at his retreating back before the saloon doors swung shut.

**

"This reminds me of the time I visited the Incan ruins of Machu Picchu." Waverly raved over the cardboard container while Illya sat across from him trying to hide his wry smile. "We hiked for four days through the mountains from Cusco, subsisting on little but hardtack, cocoa leaves and chocolate. You know, it was only a few years after the great discovery and the jungle was nearly impassable. We camped at night in dugouts lined with leaves. But by god, it was worth it. The sunrise over those mountains is one of the truly great wonders of the world."

Illya nodded. He had spent some time in Peru with Napoleon the year before and though the terrain was rough, it was fiercely beautiful.

"The cocoa leaves help with altitude sickness of course, and the chocolate is a wonderful addition to ship's biscuits. But that's neither here nor there, Kuryakin, you are here for a report. Let's have it, then."

"Well, sir, we have the entire block under a surveillance net but there has been little activity we can connect with THRUSH. The shoe shop has been fairly quiet and there's no reason to suspect any of its employees of being involved. Illya scowled, "I am not certain if our primary intelligence was correct. It is a little frustrating dishing out ice cream to children all day when we are not even certain the enemy is within sight."

"Hmm," Waverley leafed through the progress report on the table in front of him. "Profits have been unusually high for the business itself. Mr. Solo reports here that you have been serving a great deal of customers. That sounds promising… if we were running an ice cream business and not an intelligence operation."

"They are all under the age of twelve."

"And you note here that there is a children's music school operating next door to the shoe shop. Presumably this is from whence your clientele are issuing."

"Well, yes, but-" and Illya paused, a thought forming unbidden in his head. "Sir, you said that the electronic signatures operating from the shoe shop seemed shielded in some way, or dispersed? Do you suppose that the shop is an unwitting front? After all, the U.N.C.L.E. operates its own apartment complex, and the tenants are blissfully unaware of the goings-on behind their walls."

Waverly spooned some more ice cream into his mouth and pondered the thoughts. "That could very well be the case. I should like you to mount a neighbourhood promotion. Use the portable surveillance cart, the boys in Section IV can dress it up as an ice cream wagon. You and Mr. Solo will take closer readings of each business so we have more to work with."

"Very good, sir."

**

After the briefing, Illya contacted Napoleon through Channel F to tell him the news.

"Really? He wants us to sell ice cream door-to-door now?" Napoleon sounded sadistically gleeful. "I'll make some more special flavours!"

"No, Napoleon, I think we will be fine with the sixteen we have already," Illya countered.

"Seventeen. Spicy Cocoa."

"Yes, seventeen then."

"Good. I'll make some more waffle cones and see you when you get back."

Illya shook his head and groaned. "You really are enjoying this too much, aren't you?"

Napoleon chuckled. "I'll see you soon. Close Channel F."

Trust Napoleon to find amusement in the most mundane of tasks, Illya thought to himself. It wasn't surprising; Napoleon quite often acted like an overgrown child, and though he tried hard to hide it, he did have quite a sweet tooth. Probably spoiled too much as a child, he suspected.

Illya was on his way down to Section IV to give instructions about the cart when he became aware of a slight hint of cinnamon on this tongue. Strange, as he hadn't partaken in any of the Spicy Cocoa ice cream after delivering it to Waverley's office. He tried to ignore it, but after a few minutes the taste grew stronger and the mild warmth became more unpleasant. He stopped into the men's room for a quick palmful of water to wash the taste away; upon contact with liquid, the annoying burn blossomed into a searing mouthful of pain. He coughed and sputtered, attempting to dull the flames, but only succeeding in making them worse. Tears streamed down his face as he grasped for something, anything that might stop the terrible chain reaction in his mouth. His hand came into contact with the liquid soap dispenser affixed to the wall, and in desperation he slathered some across his tongue.

Bliss. The slimy pink soap, as horrible tasting as it was, performed miracles. It was only after Illya had finished spitting the last of the bubbles down the drain that he became aware of his communicator beeping.

"Kuryakin," he wheezed, stifling a series of coughs as he wiped the tears from his face.

"Ah. When I mentioned that the Spicy Cocoa needed tweaking, apparently it needed a little more work than just that." Napoleon sounded in similar shape and rather the worse for the experience.

Illya chuckled weakly. "Finally a reason to wash your mouth out with soap," he admonished. "Waverley isn't going to like this at all. I suppose I shall go and warn him."

There was silence on the other end as Napoleon processed the thought. "How much did he eat?"

"A good portion of the pint. Well done, you have likely gotten us transferred to deepest Siberia, Napoleon, and all because you wanted to play chef."

"Well, I don't have any clear evidence that the reaction is proportional to the amount consumed, but just in case… would you mind?"

Illya grimaced. "Terribly, but I'll do it anyway."

"Good. I'm stacking this stuff for disposal first thing tomorrow."

**

Illya left Waverley with a cup of pink soap and got back to the ice cream shop as soon as he could. Several Section IV men were delivering the surveillance cart, from the back of a truck, now proudly emblazoned with "Just Desserts" on the side. There was an audience of five or six children watching from across the street.

"Paint's still a little sticky," one of the handlers warned him. "It was a pretty rush job but it should cure up in half an hour or so."

Napoleon met him sheepishly at the door to the shop.

"Delayed-action pepper spray. Quite ingenious, Napoleon. What will you turn your devious mind to next? Exploding meringues? Chloroform cheesecake?"

"Don't be cruel. I suffered just as much as you did. I had to close the shop for a few minutes just to get the soap out of my mouth. It was horrible."

"Put those memories of your childhood aside, Napoleon, we have surveillance work to do." Illya gingerly wheeled the cart into the shop. "I shall man the cart, while you will remain here. You should be able to keep an eye on the readouts when I get closer to our target."

Napoleon nodded. "Looks like your hungry public awaits."  
Illya glanced across the street and sighed, "Someone should be watching those children. It's not healthy to eat so much ice cream."

"For our next job, we can be nutritionists, alright?" Napoleon handed him the familiar white apron and paper soda jerk cap. "For now it's ice cream. There's a stack of cartons in the back, and fresh cones on the counter. Better go stock up."

Illya grumbled, but took the offered items anyway.

**

Once again, Illya was plagued by children clamouring for ice cream. He had parked the cart in front of 'Madame Storke's Musical Conservatory For Youth' and did a very brisk business in chocolate. The toothless girl in pigtails was there, of course, and many other all-too-familiar-to-him faces, each with their shiny quarters and outstretched hands.

"Thith chocolate ith tathty!" Pigtails cried happily, urging all her little friends to try it as well. Illya scooped for all he was worth, and emptied the cart of anything resembling chocolate ice cream.

He returned to restock, and to take Napoleon's advice about positioning the cart inside the zone of interference. He found his partner in the back of the shop, hunched over a wireless display of dials and meters.

"The signal's strongest at your last location," he mused. "There's nothing else that carries the same wavelength, and it's consistent across the board. Where were you?"

"Madame's music school," Illya said dryly. "With all of Madame's promising pupils."

"Huh," said Napoleon all of a sudden. "I'm not getting any interference of that sort. Usually musical interference works with frequencies. What the Madame is teaching sounds a lot more like speech, with added staccato bursts. Do you think she teaches percussion?"

Illya shrugged. "Her window advertisements promise 'Your child will sing like a songbird after only 6 weeks!' but having heard some of her students' diction, I am hesitant to back that claim." He sighed. "I am also hesitant to return to vending them desserts with the amount of sugar they have ingested this week already. I'm completely out of chocolate ice cream already."

"Oh, it's in the walk-in," Napoleon muttered distractedly, twiddling one of the tuning knobs. "There's plenty."  
Illya stopped in his tracks. "Not in the chest freezer? That's where it was before."

"No!" Napoleon looked up with a shocked expression on his face. "No! that's where I put the Spicy Cocoa. I didn't want it to melt before I had time to dispose of it. Did you… you sold it all? To kids? How could you!"

"Why didn't you label it properly! That's not my fault!" Illya snapped. "You try schilling sorbet to grubby little children all day."

Napoleon was about to retort, but something on the dials caught his attention. "Hold on. I'm getting a different frequency here.  
Something's happening in the music school."

Illya watched the building, and across the street, a crying child ran outside onto the sidewalk. It was one of the ice cream fanatics, only this time he was wearing a little blue smock and a white armband. As he turned to spit into the gutter, the familiar black stamp of THRUSH revealed itself.

"Ah. Napoleon, we've found our feathered friends."

Napoleon peeked out from the saloon doors. Outside, Pigtails joined the first child, red faced and sneezing, carrying a cup of water. The two of them shared it, obviously trying to stop the irritation in their mouths.

"I'll call the Cleanup Team. You've dealt with these kids enough," Napoleon ducked into the back to open a communications channel, leaving Illya to watch the drama on the street.

The kids were crying, obviously shocked and upset. Even though they were little THRUSHies, Illya still felt bad for them. His gaze fell upon the liquid soap, and the towering stack of Dixie cups next to the sink, and he knew he had to do the right thing. He loaded the cart up with shots of soap, and trundled back across the street.

The scene on the sidewalk was a sordid affair, now with five or six kids all sneezing and coughing and crying into their THRUSH smocks. Several of them were wearing holsters with side arms, and some carried knives.

Pigtails saw him coming. "Hey Mithter, you gotta glath of watew?" Her little face was stained with tears and her cheeks were bright red,

"Try this, but don't swallow it." Illya handed her a Dixie cup. She sniffed at it.

"It'th thoap?"

"My, uhm, colleague made a terrible mistake with his recipes and this is the antidote," he explained.

"That'th good enough fow me!" She grabbed the paper cup and swished the soap around in her mouth. "Hey! It workth!"

Illya had managed to distribute cups to all the children by the time reinforcements arrived, which was convenient for the UNCLE agents, as all they had to do was raid the building and extract Madame Storke from her office. She had not partaken of any of the ice cream, but gave Illya a sour look as she was escorted to the paddy wagon.

"You and your ice cream. If it hadn't been for your distractions, I would have gotten this class trained in time!"  
Illya waved at her politely as she was driven away.

**

Waverley arrived in a staff car to inspect the closing of the premises. He was pleased with the sting operation, even though all of Madame Storke's students were minors and could not be charged (and were returned to their parents with a stiff warning about dental health).

Napoleon folded his apron sadly, and put his chef's hat on top. "So, I guess we'll be closing our doors for good. You must be happy, Illya."

"I'm happy you aren't playing mad scientist anymore," Illya said. "And no doubt several local dentists will also be quite pleased."

Waverley chuckled, while managing to eat a rather large ice cream cone. "And the commissary will be happy to serve the staff the leftovers."

"Not the Spicy Cocoa!" Both Illya and Napoleon blurted together.

"Oh, goodness no, I'm having my own personal cook take care of that recipe. It seems the younger palate can't quite appreciate the zest and vigour of that particular flavour. But I'm rather partial to it. You know, there was another time when I was travelling through South America... in fact, it rather reminds me of today's events. There was a matriarch who had converted an entire rural village to her own means. She had become a cocoa magnate, controlled the entire region, and the only way to break her stranglehold on the people was to taint her product with a terrible spice that made it unusable. Of course, then, a landslide trapped our team in the village with no supplies, and all we had to eat was the tainted chocolate… I developed quite a fondness for it. You could say I got my just desserts."

Illya shot Napoleon a pained look, and Napoleon could only laugh.

END.


End file.
